


No words needed

by LallaChan



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Brother Feels, Brothers, Doctor!Watson, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Holmes and Mycroft care, Mycroft is ill, Possessive Holmes, Watson is a good doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-05-04 10:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14591295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LallaChan/pseuds/LallaChan
Summary: Mycroft is ill, Watson won't let it go, and Holmes is starting to worry.A little Holmes and Mycroft brother story.





	1. Chapter 1

The bond between brother and brother was a unique relation. They had the right to tease and belittle each other relentlessly, a privilege no one else would ever be granted. They might hate and despise each other for years, but would come to one anothers aid within a moments notice. A bond built more upon shared experience than actual affection, but one that had served both Holmes and Mycroft well.

  


Their shared experience - built in silent glances and communication without words - had been a staple in their dialogue for as long as they could remember. Whispers might be heard, but glances and expressions could be seen without others understanding their meaning. Especially by a father who was quick to grab the riding crop for little reason.

  


With this secured to their belts as they took on the world, the two had often found themselves communicating as such; to speak without speaking. Their vocal conversation more for show than anything else. It was an advantage they had exploited more than once.

  


“You're ill,” Holmes said, voice bored, expression masked as he walked into his brother’s office. Mycroft looked up from his work with a sharp glare, but the effect was quite diminished by his over all appearance. He looked pale, his hand was trembling slightly where he held the pen, and his skin had a light sheen of sweat. Watson was close on his heels, and without looking Holmes could feel the light concern already radiating from his friend.

  


Mycroft waved a hand, “Just a light stomach flu,” he said.

  


Holmes raised an eyebrow, _have you been to a doctor_?

  


There was slight hesitation, accompanied by a weary glare, “My doctor said I should be fine by tomorrow.” he finally conceded.

  


Outside the summer warmth was radiant and shooting beams of light into the room. Holmes raised the second eyebrow and Mycroft sighed. “Summer flu's are not unheard of.” and quietly conveyed through a sharp glare, s _top your mothering_ , and rubbed his brow, “What can I do for you and Doctor Watson?”

  


Holmes quickly pulled out the letter which was not a code per se, but clearly written in some sort of language of which he had no idea where to even begin to translate. Mycroft, being much better at deciphering these sorts of things, was just the man for the job, and Holmes told him as such. With a shaking hand his brother took the letter, inquiring as to its origin.

  


“A Lady Dianne who was found murdered two days ago,” said Holmes. “She had the letter in her hand, and was shot in the chest.” He paused, expecting Watson to expand upon the murder, as was his custom, but his friend remained strangely silent. Holmes spared him a quick glance, noting the light frown and continued, “Although Watson did note she was dead before being shot, and possibly passed from shock rather than the bullet wound.”

  


“I see,” said Mycroft, sitting back and wincing lightly. “Do you expect me to disregard my own obligations to fulfill something which is of no true consequence?” _I am busy Holmes, w_ _hen do you require it?_

  


With a shrug Holmes said, “If you could so any time today or tomorrow would be sufficient. The matter is not pressing, more vexing.”

  


Mycroft snorted and placed the letter into his top drawer. “Wasting my time with trivialities.” - _I s_ _hall see to it as soon as I am able_.

  


A sharp smile, _thank you_ , and a quick nod, Holmes spun on his heel, “Come along Watson!” and headed for the door.

  


All they could do now was wait, that was often the nature of such things, and although Holmes was not eager to sit and do nothing, he did wish to return to Baker street and possibly eat. The day had been long. He was nearly at the door when he realised with a sudden start his friend was not following, in fact he hadn't moved at all and was staring at Mycroft with a most intense expression.

  


Holmes paused, “Watson!” he called sharply, pushing his annoyance into his tone. His friend spared him a glance, tensed as if he wanted to leave but for some reason held his ground.

  


Mycroft, who had picked up his pen finally looked up to return the intense stare with some curiosity. “Was there something else, Doctor?”

  


Watson blinked, looked down briefly as if considering something important, and then turned back and said in a respectful tone; “Mr. Holmes...” he cleared his throat, “Would you permit me to check you over?”

  


Holmes blinked. Mycroft blinked. They both stared. Mycroft caught his eyes across the room, _Is this normal_?

  


Holmes shrugged, _He tends to surprise_.

  


But Watson squared his shoulders and pressed on, “I am a doctor, as you know, and I feel I must warn you; your symptoms are quite worrying -”

  


Snorting Mycroft sat back with another light wince, and shot Watson a most unfavorable stare, “My own physician said I was fine, why should I think you know better?”

  


That must have stung, and for a moment Holmes was certain his friend would simply give up on Mycroft as he had done upon occasion with Holmes. But Watson pressed on in the same measured, respectful tone.

  


“Then permit me one test.” he said, “If I am wrong, then I shall personally apologise to your physician and I shall do so in your presence.”

  


“And if you are right?”

  


Watson's smile soften, “Let's hope I'm not.”

  


A sudden tightness formed in Holmes' chest. Watson was above all things, a sensible fellow. For him to push something so personal could only mean he was truly worried. Mycroft was staring at him, frown in place and eyes calculating. When he turned his gaze to Holmes with another question Holmes offered only one answer;

  


_Do as he says._

  


Mycroft's face said nothing.

  


_If not for your sake_ , Holmes implored, _then for mine_.

  


Another few seconds ticked by in which Mycroft stared at Watson with a most fierce glare. But the good Doctor was not intimidated that easily. “Very well.” Mycroft conceded wearily, and Holmes knew it was more to get the unpleasantness over with than by any true belief in Watson’s prowess as a medical professional. He made to stand, but Watson waved him back down and came around the desk and placed a hand on the back of the chair.

  


“No need to stand, I’ll be but a moment.” Reaching around he placed his other hand on the left of his stomach. “Does this hurt?” he pressed down and Myrcoft sighed. “No, it does not.”

  


Watson nodded and brought his hand to the right, “And this?”

  


Instantly Mycroft gasped, lunging forward to grab the desk for stability. Holmes tensed, feeling his stomach twist. He'd once seen Mycroft sit through a dislocated shoulder without blinking. He had to be in pure agony.

  


“Watson?” Holmes had to know.

  


With a stiff back his friend straightened and when he met his eyes, Holmes knew he was looking at the Doctor and not the comrade. “It's appendicitis, and from the look of it it's close to bursting.”

  


“His appendix?”

  


Mycroft was slowly regaining his breath and he sat back, shooting Holmes a hard stare. _This is all your fault_.

  


Holmes ignored him.

  


“Send for my bag.” Watson said, tone matter of fact and Holmes felt some of the tension leave at that. He sometimes forgot how calm his friend could be in a crisis. “And then help me get him to a bed. I'll have to operate immediately.”

  


“Operate?” Mycroft cried, incredulous, “I have a meeting in 15 minutes!”

  


“And you’re more than welcome to attend it, Mr. Holmes” Holmes heard Watson say as he walked out the door, “As a corpse.”

  


He knew it was Watson's way of teasing, of getting Mycroft to stop being a stubborn fool. But the words may as well have been a punch to the gut. When he stormed outside he spotted one of the Arabs and quickly snapped at them to get the doctor's medical bag and bring it to him within five minutes.

  


The boy took off like the devil when Holmes said something about a sovereign. Returning to the office he found his brother – with help from Watson and a clerk – was steadily making his way to the couch where quite a few white sheets were being drawn over by servants.

  


“This is ridiculous!” Mycroft muttered even as his legs dragged from the pain. They lowered him on the couch carefully and Holmes moved in to help him get settled. Mycroft muttered curses all the way through, especially when Watson removed his vest and shirt. He stood back, and the door opened revealing more servants this time with hot water and towels.

  


Watson went over to direct them where he wanted what, and Holmes tentatively walked closer to Mycroft, already feeling his heart ramming in his throat. This close he could see that the sweat had multiplied, that he was pale, and yet fever bloomed on his cheeks. Unbidden his hand reached out to touch his firm shoulder. Mycroft's eyes flew open to meet his.

  


_You need to be_ _alright_ , Holmes tried to convey.

  


Mycroft blinked, _I will be_.

  


His hand tightened, _You must be_.

  


And Mycroft reached up to grab his hand, squeezing it lightly.

  


“Holmes?”

  


He started but carefully stepped back, letting his brother's hand slide from his grasp, feeling oddly cold. His dear friend touched his shoulder, caught his eye and nodded once before letting go. “Al right, Mr. Holmes. I'm going to put you under a good dose of anesthesia, you'll sleep through the whole operation, and won't feel a thing.” and Doctor Watson took over to start the operation.

  


For his part Holmes sat and watched as his brother fell under the drug. He watched as Watson removed the rest of his brothers clothes and started the incision. Every action would be burned and seared into his memory. And no matter how it pained him to watch, nothing could make him leave that room. When the appendix, red and inflamed was pulled out from the body Holmes felt a sudden rise of violent anger. He hated feeling useless, feeling like the floor was falling out from under him. He had to hate something.

  


As illogical as it might be.

  


And then the wound was stitched, Watson was cleaning his hands, and his brother was still sleeping.

  


It took no more than ten minutes. For Holmes it had felt like a lifetime. As Watson dried his hands he finally propelled himself from the chair to come and stand next to him. Watson, bless him didn't need to be asked. Holmes didn't know where his voice had got to.

  


“We removed it in time, and he is sleeping for now.” he dropped the bloodied towel in a basin. “He is sporting a high fever, but it should go down soon. He'll be fine.”

  


Holmes released a breath at those last words and grabbed Watson's shoulder, voice tight in his throat, “Watson...” his friend touched his arm, and Holmes looked up, “Thank you.”

  


With a gentle nod Watson squeezed his arm and Holmes made to let go, but Watson held him tight, “Holmes.” there was something in his voice, something which made his heart clench all over again. Was there something wrong? Did he see a future problem? No, no, Watson was honest, if he said his brother would be fine, then he would be fine.

  


“Watson?” he implored when his heart couldn’t take the beating anymore. His friend blinked and with a quick glance at his patient he pulled him away to a corner of the room, and that in of itself made him worry further.

  


“I don’t wish to make trouble where there might be none,” when their eyes met, Holmes could see the underlining worry in his expression. “But, Holmes, I need to say this.”

  


“Then say it,” he implored, “You would not do so if you did not feel it needed to be done.”

  


Watson offered a soft smile, which faded under the weight of his thoughts. “Appendicitis is something even a fool could diagnose, there is not a doctor in this city who could would have missed this.”

  


Under all the emotional turmoil, it took him a full moment to understand the implications of what Watson was saying. He frowned and instantly turmoil faded in the wake of pure unadulterated anger. “This was deliberate?”

  


Watson looked at Mycroft. “I don't know.” he shook his head, “In my experience as a doctor I’ve only seen true amateurs make such mistakes. And a fine doctor, as I’m sure your brother employs, could not have missed such obvious symptoms.”

  


And his mind whirled at the implications, at the thought that someone, that a doctor had been conniving enough to try and kill his brother in such an underhanded way. If he had not visited him, if Watson had not been here. His eyes drew close and instantly his mind focused on the immediate problem. When they opened his emotions were buried.

  


He turned and headed for the door.

  


“Holmes!”

  


“Stay with him,” he called over his shoulder, hoping in some way the coldness did somehow convey how much he needed Watson there. How desperately he needed someone he trusted to look after one of two things in his life he treasured. When he stepped outside and Watson was not by his side, he knew his friend had understood.

  


Outside he found a cab and as it took off he felt his body grow cold and his mind turn to sharp focused. Today a doctor was going pay for trying to take him away from Holmes, for assuming he could

  


He hated Mycroft more than he let on, and cared even more than that. His brother was a bane and a balm, a soother and an aggravator in equal measures. But above all else, Mycroft was his.


	2. Chapter 2

Doctor Withers was reaching an age where dying became a rather inviting prospect, where the after effects of bad choices wouldn't last too long. Of course, if he'd known then the repercussions he would get now, he would have changed his song in a heart beat.

 

The door to his consulting room flew open, and in stormed a man with a hawk-nose and eyes burning like fire. “I say!” Withers guffawed, rising much slower then he would have five years ago, “You can't just -”

 

Two hands grabbed him by the lapels, and he was dragged unceremoniously over the table, his feet leaving the floor with an unmanly squeeck. “Doctor Withers,” it growled.

 

It was surprising how one grabs for something you deemed unimportant in the face of losing it. His life had become dull, a wish to die second only for his wish to sleep, but being held by something so dreadfully angry made him appreciate every breath still owed to him.

 

By Jove! He would _cooperate_. “Yes!” he said, “I am Doctor Withers! Do I know you?”

 

The man smiled, baring teeth like a wolf, and Doctor Withers instinctively hunched his shoulders up, trying to hide his exposed throat.

 

“You don't know me,” he said, hands tightening in his lapels, “But you know my brother.”

 

Brother? For a moment sheer terror was shunned by blooming surprise. Brother? Whose brother? When had he even seen a man like this in his life? But slowly, like syrup creeping down his thoughts did small pieces begin to build a familiar picture. The nose, the eyes, the hair, cheekbones, good gods... “Mr. Holmes...?”

 

The smile widened and he was shoved backwards back into his chair. He'd barely regained his senses, when the chair was turned sharply, forcing him to face the madman head on - he was going to _die._  
  
“Who asked you?”

 

“What?”

 

The chair was shoved backwards, crashing into the wall, making him yelp, “Who asked you to kill Mycroft?”

 

Withers started with crystal clear surprise, “How did you -”

 

And for a brief moment the eyes softened, by a bitter cold fraction - “Because I don't believe a man who has served my brother for over ten years will do something so foolish without provocation,” only to let the anger return with a vengeance.

 

He swallowed, “The Drunken Rat, on cockbill street.” he said, his voice trembling, “They said, they said if I didn't help they'd – they'd hurt Alice.”

 

“Give me their names!”

 

“It was a hit on a government official!” he almost screamed, finding some courage buried beneath the raging terror, “They weren't exactly forthcoming with identities!”

 

Mr. Holmes suddenly stood back, eyes wide and fierce, breathing hard as if reeling something back in, and for a brief terrifying moment he was certain Mr. Holmes was about to strangle him. When he shot forward again, Withers flinched away, catching a scream in his throat, but Holmes instead slammed both hands on top of the armrests. And then said in a voice cold and low, and dangerous, “What else can you remember about them, Doctor Withers?”

 

Withers swallowed and stuttered past a sudden dry throat, “One had a-a glass eye, he looked like a dockworker....” he started shaking, his nails dug into the wood, “And um, the other had a tattoo on his left hand, it resembled a Dolphin, and he had red hair...”

 

For a full moment Mr. Holmes didn't move, eyes still burning into him, waiting, forcing him to think. Under such scrutiny he couldn't help but begin to babble, “They sent me a letter! They knew intimate details about my granddaughter! Said that if I didn't... remove Mr. Holmes, I would next find her floating in the Thames. So when he came in with appendicitis I -”

 

“Do you still have the letter?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

The hand slammed down on the window, “Do you have the letter!”

 

“Yes!”

 

With one more hard glare he finally stepped back, standing only one foot away, watching him like an angry wolf. He couldn't get wolf out of his head! Trembling, numb and feeling like a pot of poorly made jelly, Withers turned and reached out with slick hands to his desk drawer. He pulled out the letter and the man ripped it from his fingers before he could say a word.

 

His heart rammed and thumped in his chest, but he kept still, watching as Mr. Holmes read it carefully. Finally he placed it in his pocket and said, in a voice that made his spine go cold.

 

“Your services to my brother are no longer needed.” and he turned, but Withers couldn't let it go, he needed to know.

 

“Mr. Holmes!” he called, and surprisingly the man stopped, “Is your brother... is Mr. Holmes...?”

 

The silence stretched and Withers suddenly wished he'd kept his mouth shut. “My brother was seen to by a better doctor.” and he walked out with a final, “Good day to you.”

 

In the stillness Withers sat back in his chair, catching breath he didn't realise he'd lost in the argument. Perhaps he should visit his niece this afternoon. He only had so much time left, better make the most of it.  


* * *

 

Wolf was not inaccurate. Holmes took to the streets like a man possessed, picking up trail after trail, the hours ticking down the afternoon and into the night when he finally found their names, and not long after their location. It would only take a message outlining the specifics to bring Gregson and six constables to the dreary old tavern.

 

After a short discussion, Gregson went inside with his men, and Holmes stood on the side, keeping his raging anger and need for retribution away from the situation. But when they dragged them Ricky, Bill and Julia into the open, and screaming into the wagon, Holmes was there, watching from the shadows.

 

He caught Gregson’s eye, who too stood watching the proceedings. After a long stare the two exchanged curt nods, and Holmes smiled. They would _hang_.

 

With a final glance he turned and left, his anger subdued by the knowledge that justice had been served, and his brother was safe once more.

 

The Clock tower chimed 12 by the time he reached Diogenes. He was let in without a word, and led down a corridor to a luxurious room, draped in red and furniture crafted from mahogany. It was warm and pleasant and when he stepped in he found Mycroft, much to his relief sitting up, despite the hour. Watson sat next to him, clearly tired, but conversing as best he could with the aloof and droll man.

 

“Holmes!” Watson said, having first spotted him. Holmes caught Mycroft’s eyes, his heart thumping, but his brother offered a weak smile.

 

_I told you I’d be fine._

 

And all the tension fled. Holmes removed his scarf, grabbed another chair and placed it next to Watson’s, “I see you’re awake and well. Did you have time for the meeting?”

 

Mycroft glared, _your brand of humor is unappreciated_. Holmes suppressed a sharp smile.

 

“He will make a full recovery.” Watson piped in, giving a languid stretch. “But he will have to take it easy for a while.”

 

“Ha!” Mycroft barked, _he’s making me stay in bed_!

 

“Which is to say, he stays in bed. The wound needs to recover first.”

 

“I'm certain it does,” Holmes said. Mycroft shot him a look. They were both equally impossible when it came to their personal well-being, as Watson was sure to discover, if he hadn't already.

 

Watson suppressed a sharp yawn. It was clear his friend was done in, but like the soldier he was he wouldn’t relinquish his post until he was certain someone he could trust would take over. Holmes had never been more grateful to his friend.

 

Without really thinking, he reached out and touched his shoulder, “Thank you, Watson.”

 

Watson waved a quick hand, hiding his embarrassment, and offered a quick nod. “Did you find him?”

 

“Yes,” Holmes smiled when Watson suppressed another yawn, “But I shall tell you tomorrow, go and rest Watson.”

 

His friend did not argue, which only cemented Holmes’ assesment that Watson had reached his limit. “I'll leave you too it then,” he stood and headed out of the room.

 

The door closed, and Mycroft tuned to Holmes with a sharp smile. “He makes for a decent Doctor.” _I like him._

 

“He is,” Holmes conceded. _I like him as well_.

 

The smile softened, “How well do you know each other?” _When are you going to tell him_?

 

“As well as we ever will.” _Never_.

 

Mycroft snorted and winced. Holmes sat down, taking the chair Watson had occupied, which was still warm. The second he sat down he realized just how tired he was. A soft hand brushed his own.

 

_You should rest._

 

 _As should you,_ Holmes smiled back. He paused, then slowly turned his hand to hold the other, _I am glad you're alright_.

 

Mycroft nodded, squeezing back. And the two watched each other, reveling in the silence and words left unspoken, but never unheard. Just for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a little surprised by the positve feedback I received for this story. I hope it concludes alright :) Thanks for reading! And please let me know what you thought! ^_^

**Author's Note:**

> I love Mycroft & Holmes brotherness! And Watson to the rescue XD
> 
> (I'm not a Doctor, if anything I said was incorrect, please let me know!)


End file.
